


Thirteen Snapshots

by newtypeshadow



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: College, F/M, Future Fic, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-13
Updated: 2006-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtypeshadow/pseuds/newtypeshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirteen snapshots of Warren and WIll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirteen Snapshots

Maj is leaning against Zach on the couch, Layla sitting on Zach's other side and leaning against the armrest, watching their laughter with a smile on her face. Maj's hair is pulled back and up, but still so long that it flows over her shoulder in a cascade of black and magenta. Zach's hair is short, spiked and platinum blond, highlighting the paleness of his skin. Ethan sits on the easy chair by the fire, glasses thick on his nose and full lips in a large white smile. On the opposite easy chair sits Warren, feet on the coffee table, father's tuxedo stylishly wrinkled. Everyone is in formal attire but Will, who is still in his glass-shard glittering jacket. He stands over Layla, one hand on her shoulder, the other on the couch, looking at Warren with confusion on his face.

The front lawn of Sky High is full of students milling about. Maj, Zach, and Ethan are sitting near a tree in the background, laughing. Warren is in the foreground in his usual jeans and black leather jacket, one hand covering his face, shoulders hunched in defeat. Layla and Will stand off to the side, kissing. Layla's eyes are closed. Will's are open.

They hunch under the rubble, light slanting in from a break in the debris heaped above them. Warren is squatting, one hand halfway toward Will's face. Will is sitting on his ass, hands thrust back as if to catch himself, feet still hanging in the air. Both are caked in dirt. Scratches mar their faces in drying blood the texture of rust and sand. Will's eyes are wide. Warren's are hooded. Their lips are heavy and swollen, red. Thick.

Layla's face is turned away from Will. His hands are on her shoulders and she is shaking them off. Her green sweatshirt and headband contrast with her red hair. Her green shoulder bag is wilted at her side, crushed by her left arm. Her right arm is near her eyes, cloaking her face. Will's face is sorrowful but determined. His eyes are dark, turning red, as is his nose. His mouth is open. He is speaking. Her lips are pulled back in a snarl of pain. Tears track down her face.

A room full of boxes. Some are open, some are closed, some are taped and some have tape lying in sticky balls beside them. Scissors peek out from behind one box. The room is empty of pictures or knickknacks as of yet, but there are poster carriers and one of the boxes is marked "Pictures". The two windows, side by side on the far side of the room, let in sunlight. There are twin beds on either side of the room, empty mattresses with pillows stacked on top. There are twin desks and dressers too, each sided with a bed. The furniture is made of cherry wood, beaten, scratched.

The room is divided into sides: Warren's and Will's. Will's side is on the right, Warren's on the left, looking in. Warren's side is predominantly red and black. Will's is red and blue. Warren's bedspread is black with red Chinese dragons snaking across it. Warren's is plain blue, the color of early twilight or the Commander's uniform. Posters coat the walls: bands, sports stars, superheroes, pictures of home, friends, family. Will is in a blue t-shirt and jeans, bending to put away a pair of shorts in his chest of drawers. Warren is exiting the bathroom in the little hallway at the front of their room. His hair swings behind him as he turns his head to look at Will, who is frowning at his shorts.

They're lying on Will's bed, Warren draped over Will's body. Will is sitting up, Warren lying over his stomach reading  _War and Peace_  and grumbling about the dryness of Tolstoy. Not to mention all the teasing he's endured for his name in that class. Will, dozing against the large red husband pillow, is fingering the red strands and twining them around the fingers of his right hand. His left rests against Warren's shoulder blades. Warren's left hand rests on Will's shoulder. His tattoo stands out, black against his tanned bicep. Fire.

The husband pillow is lying against the dresser, fallen off the edge of the bed.  _War and Peace_  is facedown on the floor. The middle pages are bent from its landing. The two are on Will's bed, Will's shirt in a tangle, trapping his hands over his head. Warren, fully clothed in white undershirt and black jeans, is pulling at Will's jeans with his right hand. His hair hangs over his face, obscuring it. Will's hips are thrust in the air, helping in the removal of the jeans. The black ink of Warren's tattoo—the character for fire—is glowing faintly red, as are the streaks in his hair. His fingers spark against Will's jeans. His left foot is on the floor, his right knee pressing into the bed between Will's legs. The bed dips beneath Warren's knee, Will's shoulders and feet. Will's socks are white. Warren's feet are bare.

Will's legs are sliding up on the bed, pulling the sheets up with his curling toes. Warren's right hand is between Will's legs, jacking him. His left hand presses down above Will's head on the red t-shirt trapping Will's hands. Warren is above Will, their heads and hearts and hips aligned but separated by too much space for Will to handle. Will's face is twisted in ecstasy. Warren's face is hard with concentration. He peers intensely at Will's face, at the tendons straining in his neck, at the curl of his kiss-swollen top lip. There is sweat on Warren's upper lip and trailing down the center of his chest. Will's fingers are clenching and unclenching with his toes. Warren's thumb smears precum over the head of Will's dick.

Warren's face is thrust toward the ceiling. His dark eyes are clenched shut, his fingers gripping Will's thighs. Will's dick is buried deep in Warren's ass. Warren is sitting on it, thighs clenched from lifting himself up and calves clearly defined by the curl of his feet. Will's expression is ferocious, teeth bared, eyebrows narrowed. Warren's mouth is open, tongue pressed against the back of his bottom teeth. Sweat shines slick at the curve of his ass, down his biceps and thighs, at Will's upper lip and neck, and down Will's chest. Will's thighs are straining from staying his hips. His knees are slightly bent, feet nearly flat against the tousled blue sheets. His hands are still dutifully held above his head, wrapped in the blue shirt, but his elbows are bent. His great strength is his weakness.

Warren is again lying on Will's stomach. Ropes of cum smear across Will's slick chest. Warren's head is on Will's shoulder. His fingers play with one of Will's nipples. Will's dick is wilting, Warren's ass glistening. Their feet are tangled in the sheets at the foot of the bed. The covers sprawl on the floor, blue and thick. Will's brown hair is glued in dark creeping vines to the sides of his face, his forehead. Warren's hair is thrown back over his shoulder, the red strands sticking together. The back of his neck is still sweaty, as is the curve of his back.

They are asleep. Will's pajamas are a red t-shirt and a pair of boxers with burgers and fries on them. Warren's are his white undershirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. Will is encased in Warren's arms, hidden under the blue blanket. Warren's head is black against the blue pillow. Will's head is in front of his, hair wisping in Warren's breath. Their knees are bent, folded together. Their feet are relaxed, faces slack. The blanket is mostly divided between Will and the floor. Warren is only covered up to his elbows, but he has always carried his own fire.

Will's eyes are cracked open. Sunlight filters into the room, hazy and dreamlike. Warren is awake, lying on his side, face propped on a fist. His other hand plays across Will's stomach. He is watching Will wake up. Will's fists are inches from his eyes, about to rub the sleep from them. His hair is a brown, tangled mess. The red strands in Warren's hair are frizzed into the black, spread wide and unruly. The blanket is slipping off the bed, held in place only by Will's right elbow. Will is flat on his back, one knee bent, the other leg stretching, toes pointing. Warren is smiling softly. Sunlight dances across his face.


End file.
